P.M. Castle

Colorado Author

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My fight to write it tight

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As both a newspaper journalist and mystery novelist, I fight to write tight. I endeavor to reach a conclusion without using too many words to get there. I prefer lean, muscular prose to corpulent bloviation. 

Compared to some authors, though, I’m a profligate who squanders words the way a drunken sailor spends money.

Consider, for example, Theodor Geisel. Better known as Dr. Seuss, Geisel wrote and illustrated some 60 children’s books that sold a total of more than 600 million copies. More impressive, he did so with few tools at his disposal.

Challenged to write a compelling book using a short list of words deemed important for first-graders to recognize, Dr. Seuss produced “The Cat in the Hat.” He used only 236 different words. He was just warming up.

Bennett Cerf, co-founder of the Random House publishing firm, bet Dr. Seuss $50 he couldn’t write an entertaining children’s book using just 50 distinct words. The result was “Green Eggs and Ham.” Cerf never paid up, but the book sold more than 200 million copies.

I’m envious of those kinds of numbers, small and big. I share one thing in common with Dr. Seuss, though: I realize the benefits of limits. 

Newspaper journalists have only so many column inches on pages for their stories. Novelists enjoy more room to write, but also face limits that vary with genre. Novelists who use 150,000 words to build brave new worlds in science fiction might have to make do with half that for even the steamiest romances. Newspaper websites and electronic books afford additional space. But other limits remain, among them the time of readers. 

Less really can be more, however. Journalists present the most important information first. Novelists tell succinct stories. It’s a refining process — one beginning with a large quantity of raw material, but ending with a smaller amount of something pure and valuable.

No one will ever match Dr. Seuss for his ability to turn a few words and poetic meter into such endearing tales. Least of all me. I could not write it in a box. I could not write it with a fox.

But I’ll continue my fight to write it tight.

Just let comma sense prevail

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While far more unites us than divides us, I realize how easy it is these days to segregate the world into different camps. Those who drink Pepsi and those who prefer Coke. Those who wear who pajamas to bed and those who, ahem, don’t. And though I’ll never understand it, those who cheer for the Broncos and those who root for the Raiders.

But I’m writing about a contrast far more stark and of far more consequence.

Those who use the Oxford comma and those who don’t.

Count me among the latter.

For those who have better things to do with their lives than obsess over punctuation — meaning nearly everyone, with the possible exception of mystery novelists and English teachers — let me explain. An Oxford comma appears after the next to the last item in a list of three or more items. For example: red, white, and blue.

The Oxford comma is so named because it traditionally was used by editors, printers and readers at Oxford University Press. Extra credit goes to alert readers who noticed I didn’t use an Oxford comma in a sentence about the Oxford comma. What delicious irony.

I developed my distaste for the Oxford comma over a lengthy career in journalism. The Associated Press style newspaper editors and reporters follow in producing copy requires the use of commas to separate elements in a series, but not before the conjunction in a simple series. No Oxford comma. Moreover, I believe the art of writing lies in thrift — that there’s a genuine risk of running out of words if you use too many. The same goes with punctuation. Less really is more.

Enthusiasts argue the Oxford comma prevents ambiguity. Consider this sentence: I arranged on my desk framed photos of my two sons, Christopher Walken and Nicholas Cage. Clearly, I didn’t father Christopher Walken or Nicholas Cage.

OK. I’ll admit it. An Oxford comma would clear up confusion. But so would better writing. Consider this simple revision: I arranged on my desk framed photos of Christopher Walken, Nicholas Cage and my two sons.

Ultimately, rigid beliefs all too often separate those who are more alike than different. So when it comes to punctuation, perhaps we’d be better off following more what you’d call guidelines than actual rules. I’m OK with that.

Just don’t get me started on semicolons.

Countless possibilities start from a cluttered desk

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I’ve heard a cluttered desk is a sign of a cluttered mind. I’ve also seen the evidence for just the opposite: a cluttered desk is a sign of genius. A quote attributed to no less a genius than Albert Einstein poses a good question: Of what, then, is an empty desk a sign?

My desk isn’t so much cluttered as it is disastrous. I’m talking well beyond what the British might describe as a dog’s breakfast. Picture instead the aftermath of a tornado that’s ripped through a trailer park.

It’s not like there’s any shortage of storage. That’s no excuse. My rolltop desk features eight drawers and no less than 19 cute little cubbies. But each is crammed full of junk, most of which I haven’t touched since I stuffed it there years ago.

The surface of my desk is no less crowded with not only my laptop computer and printer, but also files, books and paperwork. The crowing touch, so to speak, are the baseball caps I brought back as souvenirs from scuba diving resorts.

I taped quotations and admonitions to a spot at eye level where they serve as ready reminders. 

“Write with confidence and authority,” one sign commands. “Show, don’t tell.” There’s more good advice. “Bring your characters to life.”

I also clipped and displayed comic strips.

My favorite “Pearls Before Swine” strip by Stephan Pastis pictures in the first panel two characters talking. 

“Where were you last weekend?” one asks.

“I went to a writers retreat,” the other answers.

The next panel shows four writers sprinting away, the pages of what are presumably their works in progress flying behind. One writer screams. “Run. Run. Writing’s too hard.”

Exactly.

In one sense, it’s a shame the bric-a-brac on my desk covers a beautiful 19th century heirloom. The desk belonged to my beloved late wife and before that her father and grandfather. I expect my sons will one day treasure their mom’s desk as much as she did. I’m just borrowing it until then.

I suppose it might be more efficient to maintain a militaristically clean desk. Still, there’s an argument to make for the benefits of a workspace that’s both comfortable and comforting. I’m distracted by the odds and ends that surround me, but also reminded of all the blessings I have to count. And that’s a good place, at least for me, from which to tell stories.

Is my mind cluttered? Do I boast an IQ of 160? Neither.

Thankfully, this much is certain: My mind’s not empty.

What do you want to be when you grow up?

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Nearly everyone has been asked that question — usually starting in elementary school, if not sooner. Nearly everyone asks that question of themselves — sometimes regardless of age or the stage of their careers. Although there are probably exceptions, I suspect the answers almost always change.

As a kid who grew up in the midst of the space race in the 1960s, I wanted to become an astronaut. Who didn’t? Subsequently inspired by what I read about Isaac Newton and Marie Curie, I wanted to become a scientist and make important discoveries. Those of a certain age will remember the chemistry sets that used to come in metal boxes. I got one for Christmas. And a microscope, too.

Then I discovered something completely different. I took a part-time job in high school covering sports for my hometown newspaper and found out how much I enjoyed writing and reporting. I pursued computer science in college, but switched to journalism at the beginning of my sophomore year and fared considerably better — academically, thank goodness, but also personally.

Although I’m now past 60 years old, my vocational aspirations remain pliable. Every bit as pliable, I suppose, as my definition of what constitutes growing up. I’m still in love with journalism. But I still wonder what I’m going to be when I grow up. 

Fighter pilot is probably no more a realistic goal at this point than lion tamer. Mountain climber sounds exciting, but also dangerous and, even more daunting, like a whole bunch of work. Still other possibilities come to mind. Maybe dive master? Leading scuba diving excursions through warm and clear water to tropical coral reefs seems like an enjoyable way to spend the workday.

If nothing else, I remain determined to change at least one of my job titles — from aspiring novelist to published novelist.

What do you want to be when you grow up?

What are you waiting for? I hope it’s not inspiration

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It’s time to reveal another trade secret — and, hopefully, some insights that could prove useful in newspaper journalism, writing fiction and other noble pursuits. The moral of my latest story? The importance of NOT waiting for inspiration to strike. It’s a cautionary tale.

I arrived at this subject after wandering again in what I envision as the desert of my mind. It’s a wasteland in there, one where no novel thought grows. That’s problematic, especially for an aspiring mystery novelist.

There’s this hopeful belief that somewhere out there in the universe awaits a source of inspiration. When I worked at an agricultural journal in Oregon, I used to joke with a newsroom colleague about sharing the muse when weekly deadlines loomed. “Aren’t you done yet?” I’d ask her with the same urgency as someone waiting outside a locked bathroom door. “Hurry up. I’ve got to go … write a story.”

You know what? I’ve yet to find the mythical Pierian spring that inspires whoever drinks its waters. And none of the muses has ever offered to lend a hand. Not once. They’re fickle that way.

That’s the thing about inspiration. You can’t wait for it — at least if you expect to ever accomplish anything. If I’ve learned anything in more than 40 years of writing to earn a living, it’s the fact you can’t force inspiration. Try it and see what happens. Go ahead. Open a file on your computer. Better yet, pull out a blank sheet of paper. It’s counter productive.

If it does occur, inspiration is far more likely to drop by when you least expect it — to come in like fog on little cat feet. Think “Back to the Future” and how Dr. Emmett Brown slipped while hanging a clock in his bathroom, hit his head on the sink and conceived of the idea for the flux capacitor that makes time travel possible.

The alternative in the meantime? Work your butt off and hope for the best. The prolific inventor Thomas Edison knew well the proportionality involved in describing genius as 1 percent inspiration and 99 percent perspiration. By the way, Edison also said most people fail to recognize opportunity because it’s dressed in overalls and looks a lot like work.

The most important thing of all about inspiration isn’t so much where it comes from or when, but what you do about it. It’s difficult enough to come up with good ideas. For heaven’s sake don’t waste any of them.

I wasn’t initially inspired to write about inspiration. But now that I have, I’m glad I did. I can only hope you are, too.